


I could be lonely with you

by neveranygoodupthere



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Explicit, Pittsburgh Penguins, Polyamory, Post-Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 04:15:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14663100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveranygoodupthere/pseuds/neveranygoodupthere
Summary: Matt, Tanger, and Flower have an intimate ritual following every Stanley Cup win. Matt's never finished a season without it. But things are different this year.





	I could be lonely with you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sparcck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcck/gifts).



> Thanks to the 3-on-3 fest organizers for putting this all together! It was a great creative stretch to write for these three. And thanks to my prompter for the ideas. I slanted it a little, but hopefully you enjoy the results. Title is from broken by lovelytheband.
> 
> Prompts used:  
> Tanger/Muzz(/Flower?) + Cup Magic
> 
> Please to enjoy!

“Don’t expect this to happen every year, chicken.”

Flower’s words from two years before ring loudly in Matt’s ears as he climbs the stairs to his bedroom. He remembers the climb this time last year and the year before. Remembers what was waiting in his room for him. He has to stop when he imagines the emptiness waiting on him tonight. He thinks about turning around, getting in his car, and driving. Doesn’t know where he would go. Sid’s, maybe. Sid would never turn him away. But no, he’d seen Phil climb into Sid’s car after they left the arena. Dumo or Olli, then. He can’t be with…with him, with them, but his other D-men will be up for late night commiserating. He pulls out his phone and turns on the step to head back down.

“Where are you going?” He snaps back around.

“What are you doing here?”

Kris stands at the top of the stairs in sleep pants and a black t-shirt that must be one of Matt’s it’s so tight on him. His hair falls over his face in a way that suggests he hasn’t showered out the post-game sweat. Matt’s mouth dries up.

“I thought—I didn’t think you’d be here.” He tries not to stutter, not to be the kid he’s been the past two years with two veterans celebrating a Cup win homecoming together, a third wheel even though they were always in his house, always paying tribute to his game wins. Images of their bodies moving around him flash before his eyes. He can practically feel their mouths on his skin.

A complicated look passes across Kris’s face, but he shrugs it off and holds his hand out. Matt scrambles up the stairs to meet him, flushing at his own eagerness. Kris doesn’t comment it with more than a slight smirk and leads him back to his room. Matt didn’t expect tonight to be the last, hadn’t cleaned up the clothes strewn across the room, the water bottles scattered around. He’d thought about it, but it had seemed like a jinx. Not that it matters now. Kris doesn’t look at any of it as he leads Matt to the bed, nods for him to sit.

“I’m going to take a quick shower,” Kris says, gesturing with a thumb at the en suite. “That ok?” Matt nods, feeling dumb and young as Kris draws a finger across his cheek, lingers at his lips. Then he’s out of the room and Matt hears the water running. His eyes skitter across the mess, but he makes no move to clean it. This is…unprecedented, at least according to what Flower had told him. Win a cup, get a night—a magical night—with Kris Letang. Flower said it only happened the one time after the 2009 win. He and Tanger had been dancing around each other, young and talented and connected in a way that only a goalie and his number one D-man could be. The night they returned to Pittsburgh, Kris had showed up in Flower’s bed unannounced, and they spent the night living out almost every fantasy Flower had ever had about the two of them. The only one they hadn’t gotten to was obliterated the next morning when Flower woke to find Kris slipping out.

_“Going somewhere?”_

_“Home, mon ami.”_

_“Are you coming back?”_

_“Win me another cup. Then we’ll see.”_

Flower told him the story with a shrug and a smile the day after their first time together, after Kris had booked it out of Matt’s house in record time. “I think it’s superstition,” he said. “Or maybe cup magic. All year you watch him in front of you, protecting the puck, protecting you. You fall in love every game night, and you hope and hope and hope. And then you win it all, and there he is. Waiting for you.” This was the part in the story where Flower’s expression turned bitter, an expression Matt had never seen on him. “And then it’s as if nothing has happened. Years go by, and now you’re here. And we both have him.”

Matt didn’t know if he should apologize, but then Flower turned to him, expression clear of any trace of bitterness. “We won, chicken. Can you believe it? You won!”

But they didn’t win this time and Kris is still here. Matt tries to wrap his mind around it when his FaceTime alert sounds. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and swipes to answer the only person he would let interrupt this night.

“Flower, hey,” he says, the face staring back at him settling him when nothing else would.

“Hello, Matty,” Flower says, and smiles. “Tough night. I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not, asshole,” Matt laughs, a little less depressed than he had been only minutes ago.

“I am, I am! I wanted us to meet in the finals.” Flower looks good. Skinnier than normal as it’s so late in the season. But his eyes are bright and hopeful, and his happiness spreads like a salve across Matt’s bruised heart.

“You’ve got a few games to go still,” he can’t resist a little chirping.

“These upstart teams,” Flower scoffs. “They act like they’ve been in the league for years.” They grin at each other. Matt hears the water turn off, and refocuses.

“What’s up, man? Did you just call to gloat?” Flower sends him a reproachful.

“I didn’t want you to be alone tonight, chicken. This is your first year with an early finish,” he says, but Matt knows he means “This is your first year without me, without Kris." The bathroom door opens and Matt looks up from the phone.

“I’m not,” he says. “Kris is here.” Matt can’t stop his smile from spreading as Kris emerges, a towel around his waist, another in his hand as he scrubs his hair. Kris grins back. Matt doesn’t notice Flower startle.

“He’s there?” He does notice Kris’s double take. Kris mouths, “ _Flower?_ ” and Matt nods.

“Yeah, he just showed up, like an asshole.” Kris rolls his eyes but doesn’t move from the doorway, watching expectantly. “Do you want to talk to him?” Matt asks.

“No, no—” Flower says, his smile gone, but Kris is already moving from the door way, reaching for the phone. Matt sees the distress on Flower’s face, but doesn’t know what to do. He hands the phone over.

“ _Mon chou_ ,” he hears Kris say, strained, and he levers himself off the bed to give them some privacy, heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. He considers taking another shower in addition to the one he had at the rink. The reprieve he had from the pain of the loss has gone away, and the self-recriminations are back in full force. He indulges himself for several minutes. And then several minutes more when he moves to the door and can still hear them speaking. Finally, he peeks his head back into his room and sees Kris still in heated discussion so steps back and strips down, reaches into the shower to turn the water practically to boiling. He gets in and refuses to think of anything.

Once he’s done, he towels off and, for lack of better things to do in the bathroom, opens the door to the room cautiously. Kris is watching him, laying naked on the bed propped up against the headboard. He throws an arrogant, challenging smile Matt’s way. Matt can see the nerves and the pain under it, though he doesn’t know if those are from the loss or his conversation with Flower. Most likely both.

“Will you come, Matty?” he says. Only he and Flower call him that. Matt wants to ask how the phone call ended, but he nods instead and drops his towel, trying not to look so awkward as he eases himself onto the bed, careful of the post-game soreness. He glances around for his cell. Kris sees him looking.

“It’s here,” he says, and waves a hand at the night stand. Matt’s phone is set in a small tripod, provenance unknown. Flower is still there.

“Hey,” Matt says stupidly.

“Hello,” Flower replies, looking nervous and excited at once. Matt's relieved to see the distress is gone.

“Matty,” Kris says, pulling Matt’s attention away from the phone. “Is this okay?”

But Matt can’t answer because he doesn’t really understand what’s going on, and he tells Kris so.

“It wasn’t right, before,” he says cryptically. Matt watches him visibly struggle to form his words. He glances at Flower and then back again.

“Before when?” Matt prompts. “What wasn’t right?”

Kris shakes himself. “It wasn’t right when it was just me and Flower. In the beginning.” He shoots an apology at the phone then turns back to Matt, eyes pleading for understanding. “We lost,” he says, voice barely a whisper.

Matt breathes hard. They did. They did fucking lose. He keeps forgetting. “Yeah.”

“I’m so sorry.” The words are wrenched from Kris.

“It’s not your—”

“Stop, stop,” he gasps, jolting from his recline. Alarmed, Matt’s eyes flit to the phone, Flower is grim.

“He needs you, Matt. He needs us.” And that sounds so wrong. Kris takes care of them. That’s the way it’s been the past two years for Matt. He and Flower, worshiped beyond all comprehension by their number one D. But now Flower is far away and Matt is defeated for the first time in his career. And the media, Matt remembers, dared to ask if it was Kris’s fault. Now it seems it’s their turn to protect him.

“Kris,” he commands. His voice takes on a quality he’s only heard from himself on the ice. Kris’s head snaps up. “I need you to lay back." Kris balks a little, but then follows the command, falling back into the pillows, chest heaving with emotion, but his voice, his breath—silent.

“You’re going to lay there,” Matt says. “And I’m going to make you feel good. And Flower is going to tell me how.”

Kris’s eyes widen but he makes no other move. Matt glances back at the phone with Flower’s eager, breathless face on it. “Are you ready?” he asks. Flower nods, and Matt turns back to Kris. “Good. Tell us what to do.”

 


End file.
